sprinkles of saturday rain slip down onto
our shoulders like pricks of mots Parisien.
thickly muscled yells cut through the
ice breezes, slitting open my denim mini skirt.
they think i'm a blue
dévergondée.
elle a posé la carte sur la table
which was a book from Versailles.
i crave aces; they look like hacked chunks of red or black liquorice.
i had sylvia plath's journals on my lap and
had my yeux bleus glued to
the trempé pages as we exited the RER at Saint-Michel.
my lips stung like my bare legs but i bought
un gâteux au chocolat and sliced it down
the middle with a plastic spoon.
i choked on the obscur spice of big red
and my eyes turned green at the photo of
his hand in hers she's so turquoise jolie.
can i be the virgin sacrifice like they called me
and get pushed off the bridge at Versailles?
because the pink métro line direct to saint-sulpice
and fontaines and glares from women
just seem peu réaliste.
having almost-strangers worry about you after dark
wipes le sang off ton peau.
written: Saturday 25th September 2004, 11:39pm.
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